The Tempting of Tavernake. E. Phillips Oppenheim

other hand, you have certainly been a trouble to me. First of all, I told a falsehood at the boarding-house, and I prefer always to tell the truth when I can. Then I followed you out of the house, which I disliked doing very much, and I seem to have spent a considerable portion of the time since, in your company, under somewhat extraordinary circumstances. I do not understand why I have done this.”

      “I suppose it is because you are a very good-hearted person,” she remarked.

      “But I am not,” he assured her, calmly. “I am nothing of the sort. I have very little sympathy with good-hearted people. I think the world goes very much better when every one looks after himself, and the people who are not competent to do so go to the wall.”

      “It sounds a trifle selfish,” she murmured.

      “Perhaps it is. I have an idea that if I could phrase it differently it would become philosophy.”

      “Perhaps,” she suggested, smiling across the table at him, “you have really done all this because you like me.”

      “I am quite sure that it is not that,” he declared. “I feel an interest in you for which I cannot account, but it does not seem to me to be a personal one. Last night,” he continued, “when I was sitting there waiting, I tried to puzzle it all out. I came to the conclusion that it was because you represent something which I do not understand. I am very curious and it always interests me to learn. I believe that must be the secret of my interest in you.”

      “You are very complimentary,” she told him, mockingly. “I wonder what there is in the world which I could teach so superior a person as Mr. Tavernake?”

      He took her question quite seriously.

      “I wonder what there is myself,” he answered. “And yet, in a way, I think I know.”

      “Your imagination should come to the rescue,” she remarked.

      “I have no imagination,” he declared, gloomily.

      They were silent for several minutes; she was still studying him.

      “I wonder you don't ask me any questions about myself,” she said, abruptly.

      “There is only one thing,” he answered, “concerning which I am in the least curious. Last night in the chemist's shop—”

      “Don't!” she begged him, with suddenly whitening face. “Don't speak of that!”

      “Very well,” he replied, indifferently. “I thought that you were rather inviting my questions. You need not be afraid of any more. I really am not curious about personal matters; I find that my own life absorbs all my interests.”

      They had finished breakfast and he paid the bill. She began to put on her gloves.

      “Whatever happens to me,” she said, “I shall never forget that you have been very kind.”

      She hesitated for a moment and then she seemed to realize more completely how really kind he had been. There had been a certain crude delicacy about his actions which she had under-appreciated. She leaned towards him. There was nothing left this morning of that disfiguring sullenness. Her mouth was soft; her eyes were bright, almost appealing. If Tavernake had been a judge of woman's looks, he must certainly have found her attractive.

      “I am very, very grateful to you,” she continued, holding out her hand. “I shall always remember how kind you were. Good-bye!”

      “You are not going?” he asked.

      She laughed.

      “Why, you didn't imagine that you had taken the care of me upon your shoulders for the rest of your life?” she demanded.

      “No, I didn't imagine that,” he answered. “At the same time, what plans have you made? Where are you going?”

      “Oh! I shall think of something,” she declared, indifferently.

      He caught the gleam in her eyes, the sudden hopelessness which fell like a cloud upon her face. He spoke promptly and with decision.

      “As a matter of fact,” he remarked, “you do not know yourself. You are just going to drift out of this place and very likely find your way to a seat on the Embankment again.”

      Her lips quivered. She had tried to be brave but it was hard.

      “Not necessarily,” she replied. “Something may turn up.”

      He leaned a little across the table towards her.

      “Listen,” he said, deliberately, “I will make a proposition to you. It has come to me during the last few minutes. I am tired of the boarding-house and I wish to leave it. The work which I do at night is becoming more and more important. I should like to take two rooms somewhere. If I take a third, would you care to call yourself what I called you to the charwoman last night—my sister? I should expect you to look after the meals and my clothes, and help me in certain other ways. I cannot give you much of a salary,” he continued, “but you would have an opportunity during the daytime of looking out for some work, if that is what you want, and you would at least have a roof and plenty to eat and drink.”

      She looked at him in blank amazement. It was obvious that his proposition was entirely honest.

      “But, Mr. Tavernake,” she protested, “you forget that I am not really your sister.”

      “Does that matter?” he asked, without flinching. “I think you understand the sort of person I am. You would have nothing to fear from any admiration on my part—or anything of that sort,” he added, with some show of clumsiness. “Those things do not come in my life. I am ambitious to get on, to succeed and become wealthy. Other things I do not even think about.”

      She was speechless. After a short pause, he went on.

      “I am proposing this arrangement as much for my own sake as for yours. I am very well read and I know most of what there is to be known in my profession. But there are other things concerning which I am ignorant. Some of these things I believe you could teach me.”

      Still speechless, she sat and looked at him for several moments. Outside, the station now was filled with a hurrying throng on their way to the day's work. Engines were shrieking, bells ringing, the press of footsteps was unceasing. In the dark, ill-ventilated room itself there was the rattle of crockery, the yawning of discontented-looking young women behind the bar, young women with their hair still in curl-papers, as yet unprepared for their weak little assaults upon the good-nature or susceptibility of their customers. A queer corner of life it seemed. She looked at her companion and realized how fragmentary was her knowledge of him. There was nothing to be gathered from his face. He seemed to have no expression. He was simply waiting for her reply, with his thoughts already half engrossed upon the business of the day.

      “Really,” she began, “I—”

      He came back from his momentary wandering and looked at her. She suddenly altered the manner of her speech. It was a strange proposition, perhaps, but this was one of the strangest of men.

      “I am quite willing to try it,” she decided. “Will you tell me where I can meet you later on?”

      “I have an hour and a half for luncheon at one o'clock,” he said. “Meet me exactly at the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square. Would you like a little money?” he added, rising.

      “I have plenty, thank you,” she answered.

      He laid half-a-crown upon the table and made an entry in a small memorandum book which he drew from his pocket.

      “You had better keep this,” he said, “in case you want it. I am going to leave you alone here. You can find your way anywhere, I am sure, and I am in a hurry. At one o'clock, remember. I hope you will still be feeling better.”

      He put on his hat and went away without a backward glance. Beatrice sat in her chair and watched him out